I will always be there
by Zendska
Summary: A re-imagining of the closing scene of the first X Men movie. Erik iand Charles play chess in Erik's plastic prison, but this time their conversation isn't interrupted by the guard. This leads to some interesting revelations. Pure Cherik, obviously :P


_**AN: **__So I am mainly busy with my ongoing fic Remembrance Of Things Past at the moment, but I was on a train journey this weekend and this little fic popped into my head. It's not in the same timeline as my long fic – just a reimagining of the final scene from X1 when Charles goes to visit Erik in jail, and they share a moment. I feel like if that guard had come in a few minutes later, they might have had a much more interesting talk. So here it is - hope you like it!_

* * *

Erik scanned the glass chess board and realised, irritably, that unless Charles did something very stupid in the next three moves or so, he was going to capture Erik's rook, and that if he did, it was as good as inevitable he would win again. Erik made a desultory attempt to re-calibrate his strategy to eliminate the threat, then recklessly exposed another pawn. He was finding it hard to give a damn today, about the game or anything else.

It had been coming on now for some time, this lassitude, this creeping apathy. He had at first denied it, then fought it with all the fury he possessed. But he felt it defeating him at last – despair. He had been locked away for over a year now, and it was all so horribly familiar – the perfectly nutritious, perfectly tasteless meals delivered by an impersonal guard with a plastic night-stick; the perfect boredom every minute of every day; the horrifying realisation that he had lost track of what time it was, if it was day or night, Spring or Summer, and that he would never now know again, because he would rather cut out his tongue than ask anybody a thing like that, reveal to anyone how lost he was. The humiliating, Pavlovian response of his power licking out whenever anyone entered the room, looking for something, anything metal – a paperclip, a ball bearing from a broken pen, _anything _– always answered with a crushing nothing.

He had lasted the best part of ten years last time, never lost hope, although he had come bloody close at times. But he had been young then, fuelled with the passion of his newfound faith, warmed with the heat of his rage. It was different this time. He was old now – although he had never felt it, out in the world, fighting for his people, his followers by his side. Now he was alone, helpless, and his rage – the rage that had always gotten him through, no matter what – was a banked fire, coals glowing sullenly but refusing to kindle into blazing life. He had admitted it to himself at last: he was giving up. And that terrified him.

In desperation, he had swallowed his pride and asked for a visitor – the one person that he knew would be able to revive his anger, the old friend and former comrade who had left him to be captured on Liberty Island, the smiling quisling who could always drive him to distraction with his blind naivety. He asked to see Charles Xavier.

He had been half afraid he wouldn't come. When he had finally shown up one day as if it were the most natural thing in the world, set up the chess board with a knowing smile, Erik had felt a flicker of something – anger, excitement, disbelief, relief? – he couldn't quite identify. He didn't try. He was glad to feel anything at all. Before half an hour had past, Erik had checkmated Charles's king and goaded him into a blazing row. He felt alive for the first time in months.

But as with any drug, the returns had diminished. Charles had come to him every week like clockwork for the last six months now, but Erik's best attempts to needle him were more often met with indulgent indifference than vital vitriol. Erik would try and turn the conversation to humanity's inglorious history of conquest and cruelty; Charles would raise an eyebrow and answer _a propos_ nothing at all with news of Hank's new Ministry of Mutant Affairs, of dialogue and collaboration with other minority pressure groups, of the Million Mutant March being organised internationally. Erik would make pointed reference to secret government facilities he had been monitoring before his capture, seeking to sow seeds of paranoia in Charles's mind; Charles would drag the discussion back to the academic progress of his students, their hopes and dreams for the future, their happiness. It was a constant duel that Charles always seemed to have the upper hand in. And Erik felt himself sliding back into apathy, his own irrelevance hammered home by his inability to even ruffle Charles's urbane exterior. It wasn't even maddening any more; it just made him feel tired.

He watched as Charles made the obvious move, appropriated Erik's pawn. Erik decided to drop the meta-narrative of discrimination and the larger conflict for a change, to see if a more direct threat could slip a blade through Charles's cool façade.

"Doesn't it ever wake you in the middle of the night? The feeling that someday they will pass that foolish law, or one just like it, and come for you – and your children?"

Charles looked serious.

"It does indeed."

Erik was grimly satisfied to feel the faintest swell of anger. That had always been half of their dispute. Charles was as far from stupid as a man could be; he knew the risks as well as Erik did. It was simply that he allowed his blind optimism to guide him, rather than his common sense. Erik snatched up Charles's pawn with his knight, slammed the piece down on the table with a click.

"What do you do, when you wake up to that?"

Charles reached out leisurely and appropriated Erik's knight with a pawn he hadn't even noticed.

"I feel a great swell of pity for the poor soul who comes to that school looking for trouble."

Maybe it was Charles's smug little half-smile; maybe it was his complacency; maybe it was the too-familiar, half-flirtatious reproving look he shot at Erik across the board, reminding Erik of their too brief time together, before a bullet on a Cuban beach had divided them forever, sent them off on opposing paths. But suddenly Erik's burgeoning anger flickered, died. Charles was so _helpless_, for all of his power. He wouldn't be ready when the hammer fell. And he was all that they had now, Erik's people. Because Erik had failed them, got himself caught.

The wave of shame and sadness threatened to swamp the last of his fury, and in desperation he raised his voice, snapped:

"The war is still coming, Charles, and there will still be those who will fight it – by _any_ means necessary. You needn't think that it's all over just because I'm stuck in here."

Charles's expression darkened suddenly, taking Erik by surprise. Even more surprising was the fury in Charles's voice in his head – or even that voice in his head at all. They hadn't communicated like that in years, not since Erik had appropriated Sebastian Shaw's helmet to keep the angels of Charles's better nature out of his mind.

_I get so tired of listening to this spiel, old friend. Don't you ever get tired of spouting it?_

Erik kept his face carefully inscrutable, even essayed a sneer.

"You never had much stomach for the truth."

Charles wheeled himself around the table suddenly, the chess board forgetten, seized Erik's forearm in a vice-like grip.

"The truth? Is that the game we're playing now? Alright then, Erik, here's the truth. You lost your path, such as it was, some time ago. Even as stubborn as you are, you must see that for yourself. This latest idiocy of yours proves it. Not only have you managed to get yourself imprisoned, it was a hopelessly flawed scheme right from the first."

Erik gritted his teeth.

"In what way 'flawed'?"

Charles rolled his eyes.

"Come on Erik, you're the one who likes to style himself a freedom fighter. Tell me, what kind of freedom is it that can be bought with the blood of the very people you claim to protect?"

The open contempt in Charles's voice stung. Erik had an unease of conscience where Rogue was concerned – what that animal Wolverine had said in the statue, however uncouthly phrased, had struck home. Erik _could_ have sacrificed himself to operate the mutating device, instead of going to such lengths to obtain the child and her unique power. But martyrdom had never been his aim; he had too little faith for that. He had to _see_ the brave new world with his own eyes before he could rest easy in his grave, before he could believe his people were truly safe. Nonetheless, he was defensive about his decision, knew it came out in his voice.

"The girl was a necessary sacrifice. She had to die so ALL of us could live."

Charles's anger dissipated as rapidly as it had been kindled. That had always been his way, Erik remembered – strong emotions would pass through Charles, but leave him always the person he was. They didn't consume him like parasites, and he didn't cling on to them, taking his form from the feelings that fed him. Not like Erik's pain, Erik's anger, which had broken and rebuilt him, made him the man he was today. Charles shut his eyes, visibly gathering his forbearance to him.

"In a single life, the world entire, Erik. That's the crucial thing you've forgotten."

The Talmudic quotation hit its mark. Erik felt an obscure sense of shame, as he had when, as a child, his mother had caught him out in some misdeed, and instead of being angry would look at him with disappointment. The same disappointment filled Charles's face.

"You've changed, my friend. I may never have agreed with your views, but at least at one time, I could respect the conviction you held them with. You used to have a cause; now you just have a dogma. You used to have a vision for the future; now you can't see past your own bitterness. You used to want to lead your people, now you just seek to rule over them. I'm embarrassed for you, what you've become."

"Do you think I care about your approval, Charles?" Erik was surprised to hear the leaden weight of his tone – there was no anger, barely even pride. It nakedly embodied his despair, and Charles looked suddenly inexpressibly sad.

"No, I don't. I don't think you care much about anything, anymore. Be honest, Erik: do you care at all about the people you claim to be fighting for? Not the abstract idea of mutantkind, the real people. Do you _care_ about Sabretooth, Toad, even Raven anymore?"

_Raven_. It always seemed to come back to Raven. Erik had often wondered if he hadn't have recruited her that day, if he had left her on the beach with Charles, whether he and Charles could have somehow patched up a peace over the years. It was the loss of Raven's innocence that Charles had most held against him. But Erik pushed the thought aside. What might have been was a game for fools. And it did Raven a disservice. She had been his loyal lieutenant, his closest friend, his sometime lover, for over forty years. He owed her better than to wish her away, even in the privacy of his own head. Even if she hadn't come to save him, as he would have saved her. He shook his head.

"You can find out what I feel any time you want to Charles, so why don't you rummage around in my head for whatever it is that you want to know." Charles frowned.

"Cheap, Erik. You know me better than that. Or you did. Its people that matter, Erik, not ideas - and peoples hearts are won by love, and hope, not hate." Erik rolled his eyes. This conversation was pointless, would go round in circles forever if he let it. He tried to convince himself that not even a small part of him wanted it to.

"I invited you here to play chess, Charles, not to be subjected to your cod philosophy. So either take my bloody rook, or say what you have to say and get out."

_I came to say I still love you, Erik. Even though you've become an old fool._

Erik blenched, bit his lip. He half-thought he had imagined the words, words he hadn't even known he had been holding his breath for these past forty years. But when he flicked his eyes apprehensively at Charles, the telepath's expression held so much compassion, so much tenderness, he knew that it was true.

Erik felt something dangerous shifting in him, a passion that had nothing to do with anger, or with his righteous cause, which only had to do with the man in front of him, the bond that they had shared, a love and understanding like no other Erik had known before, or since. Dear God, it had been so long, so _long. _

Erik realised he still hadn't spoken, and that Charles could probably feel the welter of emotions rolling in his chest. He cleared his throat, tried to sound casual, failed so completely it was comical.

"...and why did you feel the need to say that?" Charles gave a soft, almost sad smile.

"You said it yourself my friend - I rummage round in people's heads, whether I want to or not sometimes. The need I felt was yours." Erik felt something like embarrassment, looked at his hands, the thick veins, the wrinkled flesh, the slight tremor he had been studiously ignoring for about eighteen months. When did he get so _old_? He didn't feel it now; he felt like a tongue-tied teenager, not knowing how to respond to Charles's astute observation.

"To be honest, I didn't think it would still mean anything to you, not after all this time." Erik looked up, surprised to hear the vulnerability in the younger man's voice, the slight tremor of emotion barely held in check. He met Charles's eyes, found they could still transfix him, so _blue_, so beautiful.

"And now you know it does?"

At that, Charles smiled a smile from his lost youth - warm and flirtatious, mischievous and kind, a smile that dragged a draught of burning blood through Erik's dusty heart.

"Well, now, I think I'll take that rook of yours that you've left hopelessly exposed, and hope for better days to come."

As Charles reached out to take his rook, Erik seized his arm.

"You know this plastic prison of theirs won't hold me forever."

After everything that had passed between them, he wondered if Charles would take the words as a promise or a warning. Charles's wide grin answered him.

"I'm counting on that fact. And I will always be there. Old friend."


End file.
